Albus's Alchemical Adventure
by Inconsequential
Summary: Young Dumbledore avoids Divination. Involves charmed goats, Nicholas Flamel's camera, a Jewish wizarding school, an alluring Hufflepuff, and a number of 19th century Muggle philosophers and literary theorists. Now slightly AU lighter and happier than DH.
1. Quirks Explained

A/N: _In HBP, Dumbledore mentions that he has never taken Divination lesson. Watch, as our hero skillfully extracts himself from an unwanted situation; as he attempts to conquer his fear of the opposite sex; as he deals with the attention seeking ways of his young brother Aberforth; as he possibly discovers a German Wizards' plot. The word _zeitgeist_ may eventually be mentioned: do not fear it, it is only a word. I couldn't find much information on which wizards are Dumbledore's age or older (it's rather outside of cannon, time-wise), but did my best to use those I could/their ancestors._

_I used to put disclaimers in my stories, but _why_? This is a fanfiction site, for the love of Socrates!_

Chapter One: Quirks Explained 

"_Slytherin!"_ cried the Sorting Hat from its perch atop a small, round boy in expensive-looking dress robes. Amidst general clapping he took his place at the proper table, stopping to give Albus Dumbledore a small wave. The older boy, sitting amongst his fellow Gryffindors, waved back. Young Horace had befriended his brother Aberforth at Wizarding Camp that summer (the summer of 1853, to be exact). Some Gryffindors frowned at Albus's Slytherin fraternization, but the third-year paid no attention to them.

Albus cultivated a general attitude of blithe unconcern toward the opinions of others, except, of course, when it came to girls. Then, he grew completely tonguetied, and could merely babble nonsense. On one memorable occasion, while working next to Aurelia Bones in Herbology, she had dropped a bit of potting soil down the front of her robes, and he had so lost track of his tongue that somehow the words, "Nitwit—blubber—oddment—tweak!" had escaped his gaping mouth. He hadn't spoken to her since, and was, in fact, avoiding looking at the entire Hufflepuff table.

His task was made more difficult considering his brother, Aberforth, had just been Sorted into Hufflepuff. Albus had to admit he was rather relieved. Dealing with Aberforth's shenanigans at home or at Wizarding Camp was quite enough; this summer, for example, he'd fallen in with a nasty crowd of young farm hooligans, who seemed to enjoy molesting the livestock.

Albus could only hope Aberforth would grow out of it. That, or become an instant success in Care of Magical Creatures.

"Psst—" Phineas Moody gave Albus a sharp poke in the side with his wand. "Are you gonna drink that pumpkin juice?" The feast hadn't yet begun, but a starter of pumpkin juice had appeared to refresh the students during the Sorting. "I couldn't eat on the train, I got motion-sick—strange things, aren't they, trains? Is it true they were invented by Muggles?"

"What? Oh, yes, they were," Albus said vaguely, starting up in his seat. He pushed his pumpkin juice over to Phineas. "Go on, it's not sweet enough for me."

Phineas took a long drink from Albus's goblet. "I say, there're more in Hufflepuff every Sorting, aren't there?"

Albus winced, glimpsing Aurelia out of the corner of one eye.

"Oh, no… there goes one to Ravenclaw." Sure enough, a tiny wizard was attempting to pull of the Sorting Hat, which had settled over his entire upper torso. "Blimey, that Filius boy is tiny, isn't he? Part gnome or something, maybe… honestly, what's next, werewolves?"

"What, don't you think they deserve an education?" Albus said mildly.

"I just don't think we deserve getting bitten. Come off it, Albus, it's just your parents talking. Notorious liberals, aren't they? Honestly—trying to get a grant from the Ministry to combat Muggle slavery. In America, no less—you know they're all barbarians there, don't you? Well, I hear my father gave him a right talking-to—we need out forces for other things, not _Muggles_… like…" Here he paused, and his voice dropped. "…well, the German wizards have come up with a new curse, my Dad's said… drives you mad, he says… but he hexed my ears off when he found me listening in on his meeting, so I don't know much."

"That'll be enough gossip, young men!" Nearly Headless Nick caught the tail end of Phineas's speech as he floated toward them across a table. "Settle down and enjoy the Sorting… and the feast… wish I could…" He stared sadly down at the plates, still empty in anticipation of the feast.

"I reckon he's right," Phineas said. "Best not to mention it, the Aurors are taking care of him, my Dad told me. Say, what do you think of the new Potions professor? Dead mysterious, he is."

"Ah yes, Nicholas Flamel." Nearly Headless Nick looked like he was enjoying a private joke. "Interesting man. I think you'll enjoy him."

Albus stared broodingly at the table in front of him as, in the background, he heard "Stein, Abraham" being sorted into Gryffindor. "Potions should be fine, then. It's just Divination I'm worried about. My parents say it's all hogwash."

"Divination's not so bad," Phineas said darkly. "It's History of Magic that gets me. The only time Professor Binns is entertaining is when Peeves tampers with his lecture notes… he just reads them right off, it's really funny… heard him mumbling something about memorizing them all this year, so I suppose he's caught on. Ugh!"

"Defense should be nice this year, though," Albus said. "Professor McGonagall's said we get to start on magical creature defense. I can't wait for the boggart lesson, I've been practicing all summer. Got one in my cupboard, you see."

Phineas shook his head. "Only you, Albus, only you. I expect your boggart is an empty bag of lemon drops."

Albus's jaw dropped. "How did you know?"

"You're the only person who could possibly be so bloody optimistic."

"Optimistic, nothing! Imagine life without lemon drops…"

"Well, if the Aurors succeed in declaring Muggle edibles contraband--my dad's said, you know, he's been discussing it with some other Aurors."

Nearly Headless Nick tut-tutted. "Dear, dear… a life without Muggle sweets. Why, I recall, back in my day, I used to sneak into the Muggle Baron's estate just to nick some rose jellies… those were the days. Rose jelly. Do you know, I never tasted chocolate? In my day, what you got after a Dementor came'round was a cup of spiced mead and some pepperup potion."

"There, there, Nick," Albus said quietly.

"Look, the Headmaster's beginning his speech!" Phineas had a hopeful look on his face. "Maybe he won't go on so long this year. I'm hungry."

Albus groaned. He had always hated Professor Fortescue's long-winded, if good-natured speeches, earnestly enjoining the students to perhaps take a stab at following some of the rules. In his opinion, a well-placed quip would have worked just as well, maybe better. As the headmaster's speech reduced several students to loud snores, Albus found his own mind wandering. He planned on spending extra time studying Defense this year, and didn't want his stupid new Divination class to get in the way. Besides, he was still helping his parents with their anti-Muggle-slavery campaign. There was never enough time for it all; he didn't need Divination to tell his future was far too cluttered. But how could he escape from a class just because he thought it was absolute rubbish?


	2. Problem Solved?

**Chapter Two: Problem Solved?**

"Excuse me?" Professor Fortescue stared at Albus Dumbledore, his hands clasped over his ample stomach. "You want to found a new discipline."

"That's right, sir," Albus said. "I think understanding our non-magical brethren is of extreme importance. I've been doing some reading over the summer, you see, and—"

"Who do you propose would _teach_ this course?" Fortescue broke in. "Not that it's a bad idea. I, myself, thoroughly support Muggle innovations. Trains, for example. Very useful, no risk of splinching or allergic reactions to Floo powder…" he tapped his reddened nose. "But we can't have a Muggle teach at Hogwarts, Albus. It may not seem important to someone your age, but believe me, Magical Secrecy is of utmost importance."

"Well, sir, I've done some research into the faculty's background, and I found out that, as well as being an accomplished alchemist, Professor Flamel lived among Muggles for awhile, and has studied the recent developments in technology and literature. He's even friends with some really famous Muggle thinkers, like, I think Schleiermacher is his name? And of course, Flamel recently wrote an article for _The Alchemist Advisory_ about this crazy Muggle alchemist who invented this crazy Muggle idea called 'conservation of mass' about sixty years ago. Of course no Wizards even knew about it! I mean, this stuff is really interesting!" Albus paused for breath. "Please, Headmaster, sir?"

Fortescue frowned down at Albus. "You're sure this isn't just to get out of Divination? I'll have you know, it's, er, quite… an… important subject!"

"No!" Albus said desperately. "I'm just really interested in studying Muggle ways of thought. It's a formative period in Muggle history right now, you know. Their technology is almost like our magic, you can't call them inferior anymore. They might have something to teach us. Besides, didn't you know Muggles practice their own kinds of Divination? It's not so different really, just more inclusive." He smiled beguilingly up at the headmaster.

Fortescue rubbed his temples, frowning. "Let me speak with Professor Flamel about this, Albus. I wouldn't even consider it, but your work in your second-year classes was so superior, I do respect what you have to say. Yes, why don't you fetch Professor Flamel for me?"

Albus hurried excitedly down the dungeon corridor to the Potions Master's room. Muggle Studies! His parents couldn't possibly yell at him for that, they'd wanted it in the curriculum for _ages_.

The door to the Potions classroom was shut. Albus paused in front of it, a bit curious as to what, exactly, it would look like this year. The old Potions professor had been the ancient, crotchety, and ill-tempered Professor Malfoy, who had kept the classroom in a state of dusty, careless disrepair. He also had a penchant for storing potions for far too long, until they fermented and, often, became dangerously explosive. The old professor had a habit of cackling raucously whenever a potion doused an unsuspecting first-year, and all of his students had very quickly learned the _evanesco_ charm.

Hoping for new _décor_ at least, Albus knocked hesitantly on the door, but no one answered.

"Oh well…"

He pushed it open, and was hit with a blast of noisy trumpets belting from a large, bell-shaped contraption in one corner.

The room was utterly unrecognizable. Colorful, strange-looking plants were scattered in pots all around the classroom, fed by artificial sunlight filtering in from the Transfigured ceiling. Odd, bright objects were stuffed into every nook and cranny: Albus didn't recognize many of them. There was a tall tripod-shaped thing draped in black standing in one corner, and as Albus walked into the room, it wiggled, then let out a bright flash.

"Ah!" Albus jumped back, whipping out his wand.

There was a chuckle, and the black cloth of the tripod wiggled again, to disgorge the slight, brown-haired figure of Professor Flamel. He waved his wand, and the crashingly symphonic music came to an abrupt stop.

"Sorry, young man, I didn't mean to startle you. I was just experimenting with an intriguing Muggle instrument, they call it a camera. Now, if you'll just wait a moment—" He waved his wand, and the classroom was plunged into abrupt darkness; the false sky twinkling with violet stars. Turning to the apparatus in front of him, the professor Summoned a small vial of what looked like murky liquid. "And a little silver, with Extract of Mercury…" he muttered to himself. "… _expergisci imago!"_ He waved his wand at the back of the machine, which spat out a small piece of paper. "Excellent!" Flamel waved his wand again, and the sky grew sunny once more. "You've got to develop it at once, you see," he said kindly to Albus, "or it goes all funny, turns its back on you, and won't move. But it's when the eyes turn red you really have to watch out."

He dusted off his hands and stepped smartly in front of the tripod device. "Now, about the Muggle Studies course, I'd be absolutely delighted to do it, my boy, absolutely delighted."

For once in his life, Albus Percival Wulfric Dumbledore was rendered absolutely speechless.

"This is really incredible!" Phineas Mood exclaimed, squinted at the picture of Albus, who was repeatedly jumping back in shock. "It looks so real, just like you. My mum decided to do my portrait when I was a baby but it just looks like a mad Mandrake and keeps trying to gnaw my blanket. How'd he do it?"

Albus shrugged and settled back in the squashy armchair he currently inhabited. "I dunno. He said it was Muggle artifact, but he enchanted it to move using the _expergisci imago _ charm, just like for a portrait. Oh! And he's going to teach a Muggle Studies course."

Phineas did a double take, almost dropping the photograph.

"Yeah, only for third-years, though—the other classes are too far in their career tracks, it wouldn't make sense. So, no Divination." He smiled smugly. "I told you I could get out of it. Will you take the class, too?"

"My parents would kill me. They say people who work with Muggles are… er. Anyway, Muggle Studies isn't exactly part of the Auror track. And Flamel's a bit barmy, isn't he? Not all there… my dad says he hardly ever comes out of his house, and he's always fraternizing with half-breeds and Mugg—er." He stopped quickly. "Anyway, I met Professor Foustus at our Christmas party, I can't just disappoint him and not take his class, can I?"

Albus shrugged.

Phineas looked slightly uncomfortable, then leapt to his feet, yawning exaggeratedly. "Blimey, it's late," he said. "I know tomorrow's Sunday, but it's after midnight."

As Albus lay in bed, comtemplating the picture under the light of a dim _lumos_, he heard a whisper next to his head.

"Pst—Albus!"

It was not Phineas, but one of his other roommates, Acerbus Asperus, known as 'Ace'. He had been a Beater on the Gryffindor Quidditch team last year, and was quite popular; he'd also been at Wizarding Camp with Albus and Aberforth the year before. Otherwise he probably wouldn't even talk to Albus, who, partly due to his daunting intelligence, was _not_ the popular type.

Albus rolled over. "What is it, Ace?"

"Is it true Professor Flamel's got some weird Muggle picture-drawing device?"

"Albus showed him.

"Wow! And… he's teaching a Muggle class?" Ace had a way of hearing the latest news.

Albus nodded. "Muggle Studies. It should be really interesting."

"Hm… I think I'll take it. Don't think much of that Foustus character teaching Divination. No sense of humor. Why, just yesterday I enchanted his crystal ball to show pictures of Professor Malfoy kissing him, and he had a nervous fit. Think he thought he was seeing the future, poor fellow." Ace chuckled.

Albus, remembering the other two boys in the room, barely stifled a laugh.

"So… yeah!" Ace said brightly. "I'll see you tomorrow in Muggle Studies. I can't wait, Professor Flamel sounds _brilliant_."

In the bunk above Albus's, he thought he heard Phineas breathing rather harder than sleeping people usually did.

**A/N:** _In the next chapter: more Aberforth, a Howler, and the Hebrew School for Wizards are all introduced. Also, the first class with Professor Flamel. It's all so very exciting, I'm sure. _


	3. And Now, a Brief Interlude

A/N: I will probably go back and retitle chapters later, as well as make a few minor changes and edits (like the spelling of 'canon' in the first A/N), now that I've plotted out more of the story. Onward! Beware of low-grade implied bestiality, not meant seriously. It's just art, like… um… Equus. But no nudity. Constructive criticism and philosophical argumentation both appreciated, though I prefer the latter!

Chapter Three: And Now, a Brief Interlude 

"'My name is Albus, and I've founded a new discipline,'" Aberforth mocked. "'My name means 'white,' so of course my little Hufflepuff brother is called the 'black sheep' of the family, oh very funny..'" He sighed and put an arm around his companion.

His companion snorted in sympathy.

Aberforth looked broodingly out at the lake, watching the giant squid as it waved a startled first-year Gryffindor in one of its tentacles. "Everything exciting happens to Gryffindors. It's really not fair."

His companion nudged him in the shoulder.

"I know. I should do something exciting. Well, now that you mention it, there is this one spell… wouldn't it be nice to talk to me?"

His companion stared at him with liquid eyes.

"And… I know you're just a kid, but… well, for this spell to work I'd have to, um… kiss you…" Aberforth paused. "It's called the Pygmalianus spell. I think it's usually meant on inanimate objects, but I could use the Pygmalianus animalis… you'd like being human, wouldn't you?" He stroked his companion lovingly.

His companion, the goat, baa'd.

"Yes, yes, I know it's illegal. So like you, always bringing up practical concerns. But I'm eleven. What are they going to do, toss me in Azkaban?"

"Baaa."

"All right. Well, the first thing I have to do is give you a name…"

"Baaa!"

"Bluebell. I like that name. All right, Bluebell, I'll transfigure you and you'll love me and be my girlfriend and always love me!" He giggled, somewhat insanely. "Now, where did I put those instructions…"

"Baaa!" Bluebell rolled her goaty eyes.

Later, back at the castle… 

After an uneventful day of Herbology with the Slytherins, followed by double Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws (they did clothing, and Ace accidentally-on-purpose Vanished the robes of pretty Ravenclaw Muriel Davies, much to Professor Longbottom's displeasure), they found themselves in Professor Flamel's crowded classroom for the period that usually comprised the first half of lunch. Almost every third-year from every house had chosen to join the class, though there was a marked paucity of Slytherins.

Albus found himself sitting next to his roommate, Ace. He concluded that the popular boy mainly chose to sit next to him because his Quidditch friends were all in higher years, but he didn't mind.

"Hello, everyone!" Professor Flamel walked into the room and beamed at the class. "I'm so happy so many of you decided to join me on what promises to be an exciting, if claustrophobic, adventure to the land of the Muggles! Now, first: do we have any Muggle-born in the class?"

Several tentative hands were raised.

Someone coughed. _"Mudbloods!"_ Cough.

Professor Flamel said nothing, but narrowed his eyes slightly, then carried on. "Wonderful. While you may be familiar with some of the coursework, I'm certain much of it will be new to you. That's right, no easy 'O's in this class! Now, as we won't be focusing simply on the surface cultural disparity between ourselves and Muggles, what will we be focusing on, you may ask? Why, what a good question! Ten points to everyone. Many things! Many things indeed!"

He paused to beam cheerfully around the room.

"We shall approach the _zeitgeist_ of Muggle cultures of various ages through a study of some of their literature, philosophy, and sciences. Yes, sciences. I know, I know—" He held up a hand. "We tend to see Muggle science as simply a poor substitute for magic. But as far as my calculations go, magic is almost perfectly compliant with Muggle scientist Isaac Newton's laws of mechanics. There are a few problems, of course, a few things we can do that Muggles can't; it all has to do with the conservation of matter, which doesn't seem to apply to wizards. However, some recent calculations I've done indicate that in fact, the boundary between matter and energy, mechanics and magic, is far from rigid. Muggles just may be approaching our world from the other side, and studying them can inform us hugely."

The students, who were only thirteen and uncertain as to who 'Newton' was, blinked in confusion. After a brief pause, Professor Flamel decided to continue.

"Now, what use is Muggle literature and philosophy, you may ask? And well you may! Take another ten points. Well, as you may know, spells are performed through the use of words."

"Thanks, I didn't know that," said someone snidely. Albus glanced toward the back of the classroom and noticed Castor Black lounging in his seat, smirking.

Again, Professor Flamel ignored him. "The power of words is far from lost on Muggles. As far back as Plato and Aristotle, they have recognized the power of the proper names for things. In fact, it was only later, during the Roman rebirth of classical Greek culture, that wizards of the time came upon these philosophies and used then to create the catalogue of proper spell names we use and embellish today, along with some Egyptian and Asian additions like the well-known _alohomora_. And of course, Hebrew wizards, most famously Moses, have been creating their own spells for thousands of years. So you see, it was the Muggle philosophers who laid down the underpinnings of modern magic!

"Naturally, words are merely an _analogy_ and a _conduit _for magic, a way to understand it better—but they are nonetheless indispensable. The practice of magic as we know it today involves the organization of a cohesive collection of powers and phenomena. Unfocused magic is not rigorous, and very unpredictable, as I'm sure you've all experienced! Thought not focused by language is much the same. As Muggle philosopher and theologian Augustine pointed out a millennium and a half ago, words are a great creative force. They lift us out of the petty, the selfish, and the mundane, and lead us toward truth. Do you know the difference between Light and Dark magic?"

Surprisingly, Castor Black flicked a bit of hair out of his eyes and raised a hand.

"Yes, Mr. Black"

"Yeah. Dark magic is interesting. Light magic is easy."

Laughs from a few in the room were quickly stifled.

Professor Flamel simply looked concerned. "Oh, dear!" he said. "That is certainly a misconception. No, you see, Light magic is simply more True. Dark magic is more False. Now, the question of truth versus falsity has come up many times in Muggle philosophy, and it is indeed a most interesting argument, one which is not at all conclusive—but most wizards, like young Mr. Black here, seem to function based on the most primitive biases. This is why I was so delighted when Mr. Dumbledore approached me regarding this course. There is much, indeed, that Muggles may teach us, not least of which is that we must _question our assumptions_." He made sharp eye contact with Castor Black, and held it.

Flamel smiled and looked around the class. "Now, for the first lesson, who wants me to make an automatic portrait for them? It will be a wonderful demonstration of the juncture between magic and Muggle technology and art, and how they can work together in harmony."

Ace nearly leapt out of his seat to volunteer. Even Castor Black looked grudgingly intrigued.

As they walked to lunch, Ace still clutching his newly-minted photograph, which was beaming toothily at him and waving, he and Albus fell in step with a third-year Ravenclaw, Jacob Stein.

Ace shook his head. "I have to say, I didn't understand a bloody word Professor Flamel said, but that camera thing is incredible! And then he goes on and on about philosophy and all that. I mean, if I'd wanted to learn Greek and Hebrew and read mouldy old Muggle thinkers I'd've gone to Muggle University, know what I mean?"

Albus shrugged. "I thought it fascinating. I've always wondered why we have words for spells, and from what I've read of Newton, he seems like an interesting fellow. His mathematics are—"

Ace groaned. "Come off it, Albus, everyone knows you're a genius. You do know you'll be writing my essays for this class? I mean, I thought it was going to be fun, not bloody philosophy! Still and all, I've always wondered what makes Muggle trains go…"

Albus nodded, then turned to Jacob Stein, who was hovering to his left.

"Hello," he said politely.

"I say, that Flamel is amazing, isn't he? It makes me glad I came to Hogwarts instead of the Hebrew College of Magical Theory. It's in Spain," he said, noting Albus's look of puzzlement. "My family used to go there, but we've been in England for awhile now. It's so strange, some of my cousins don't even know any Latin spells at all! It was so interesting to hear about the history of magical terminology, wasn't it? I'd always wondered about that. I mean, I know the story of Moses, and everything, but that must be why Hebrew spells developed apart from others. Fascinating!" He paused to give Albus a wary look. "But, er, listen, I have to talk to you about your brother. My little brother Abe says he had it from Filius Flitwick who had it from Angela Smith during first-year Charms that your little brother was seen down by the lake this morning with, er, a goat and a book of spells, and his wand out. I thought you ought to know. Just think of what it could do to your family's reputation!" He looked horrified. "I mean, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry…"

"That's all right," Albus said reflexively, but his stomach sank.

As they entered the hall for lunch, they were greeted by a flurry of owls delivering the post for the day. Albus searched for his own ancient grey tawny owl, Gawkes, but couldn't find him.

While Albus was mildly disappointed his parents hadn't written him, he wasn't too surprised; they were, after all, in America. No, the truly suprising part of lunch was the bright red envelope dropped neatly in front of one Castor Black. The boy grabbed the smoking letter in apparent horror and began to sprint from the Great Hall, but he was too late. As he reached the entranceway, the red envelope exploded and a booming, quite angry voice echoed through the hall.

"HOW DARE YOU TAKE A CLASS FROM THAT MUGGLE-LOVER FLAMEL, I DON'T CARE IF YOU ONLY WANT TO LAUGH AT IT AND DISCREDIT THE MUDBLOODS, THIS IS NO WAY FOR A BLACK TO BEHAVE, DO YOU HEAR ME? WE DO NOT CONSORT WITH MUGGLES! WE DO NOT STUDY MUGGLES! THAT GOES FOR YOU TOO FORTESCUE, YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED LETTING THAT MUGGLE-LOVER TEACH AT YOUR SCHOOL!"

Through the puff of smoke emitted by the Howler, Albus could just make out Castor Black running from the room, his hands over his face.


	4. The Mystery of the New Student

Disclaimer: I disclaim.

A/N: Sorry for the long wait. It struck me, rather belatedly, that my story is now decidedly AU, being a far more lighthearted rendition of Dumbledore's childhood than that depicted in DH. Still, I like it. So, apologies, and… onward.

Chapter Four: The Mystery of the New Student 

His jaw set grimly, Albus set off in search of his younger brother. _Yes_, he liked to play with the goats at home. _Yes_, he seemed to prefer it to human contact sometimes. But then again, Albus had never had much time for him, finding the younger boy a bit… well, a bit boring to talk to.

Now he felt guilty, and also a little resentful that he was missing his lunch to look for his brother… and a goat.

But when he reached the back field, there was no sign of a goat, or any animal other than the giant squid, which waved its tentacles lazily in the air, trying to slap passing birds.

Aberforth sat on the grass beside a short-haired girl in yellow-and-black Hufflepuff robes, engaged in conversation. For a moment, Albus had the wildest suspicion…

_But of course Aberforth couldn't accomplish that kind of magic,_ Albus told himself. _How could he? Oh, no, he couldn't have…_

Albus approached his brother.

"So, who's this?" he said, trying to be polite.

Aberforth jumped, taking his arm from around the girl.

"Her name is Bluebell," he stammered.

Bluebell looked up at Albus. She had bulbous, rather vacant amber eyes, a long, softly curved nose, and—

"HEY!" Albus yanked the sleeve of his robes out of her mouth.

Bluebell looked up, terribly startled, then leapt up, hobbled unsteadily, and sprinted off, weaving through the grass as though drunk. Aberforth set off after her without a backwards look.

_That's it,_ Albus decided, _time to tell the Headmaster._

A very small part of him remained impressed at his small, angry brother's unexpected skill at transfiguration.

Aberforth didn't speak to Albus for the next several weeks, once Professor Fortescue had sorted out the Bluebell business, released her into the care of a kind Hogsmeade villager, and given the first-year a stern talk and the advice to confide more often in his Head of House. Not that anyone else was talking to him. Word had gotten out, as word always does in small schools. The story had, predictably, grown in the retelling.

Most unfortunately, Albus now got some of the social fallout. People muttered that he had helped his brother with the difficult spell, and shared a similar preoccupation with ruminants. And Albus was too dignified, or enraged, to engage the rumour-mongers in argument or duel. Besides, he would have won, and they'd just avoid him more out of fear.

A few people stuck by him: surprisingly, Ace was one of them, as was the kind-hearted Jacob.

But the rift between Phineas Moody and Albus had only gotten wider and deeper. He barely spoke to Albus, even before bed, when they had always swapped stories. Now, Albus found himself loudly conversing with Ace about the wonders of Muggle Studies, hoping (somewhat viciously) that Phineas would feel jealous.

Phineas began to spend more time with Castor Black,; Steven Crabbe, a Beater on the Slytherin Quidditch team and a year above Albus and Phineas; and the Bulstrode twins, sullen sixth-year boys whose distinguishing characteristic was chiefly that they didn't have one, being thoroughly mediocre in every possible sphere. Yes, they were rich, but Phineas had never cared about that. And how could the wannabe-Auror spend time with people whose families were so notoriously Dark?

Soon enough, though, Albus found himself busy enough with work (Muggle Studies was no soft option; they read at least five-hundred pages a week!) that the funny looks and social troubles began to lose their power over him. He spent more and more time in the library or with Professor Flamel, trying to think of a way to harness the power of electric light by magic. Surely, the fundamental energy that was the underpinning of light could be channeled into a self-perpetuating device which could convert electricity to magical power, for example the _lumos _spell, and back again….. the ability to switch back and forth between magic and technology thrilled him. It was an almost entirely new and untapped source of power.

One Tuesday morning shortly before Halloween, Albus arrived early to Muggle Studies, hoping to get a word in with the professor about a new idea that had struck him in potions regarding dragon's blood. He had noticed its strange coagulation patterns, and wanted to discuss its use in an Impermeable Cream. After chatting with Flamel ("I'm delighted you've thought of this, Albus, delighted! Why, I'd say you have the makings of a great scholarly dissertation if you keep at it, dragon's blood is such an unexplored area…"), he settled into a seat at the back of the room, glowing with pleasure at the praise.

As he'd arrived early, he was able to observe all of the students walking into the class. He was puzzled to find he didn't recognize one of them. It was a short boy with wispy, light-brown hair, round blue eyes and freckles. Rather unassuming, the boy could have been anyone… a Longbottom, even a Weasley… but Albus was almost certain the small boy _wasn't _anyone he knew.

Shrugging off his puzzlement as evidence that he'd been studying a bit too hard for end-of-term exams, he settled into the class. Today they were discussing Hume, a Muggle philosopher of the 18th century. For class, they'd all struggled through (or had Albus interpret for them, or used the handy _claro_ spell to make the language less dense) Hume's _A Treatise of Human Nature_.

"Funny anecdote," Flamel was saying. "Hume actually came quite close to penetrating Hogwarts—he was Scottish, as you all know, having done the reading. Ten points to all. In any case, Mr. Hume was out on a walk, saw a unicorn in the forest surrounding the castle, and followed it. His great _curiosity_, one of the most admirable, and dangerous, traits a man can have, led him to persevere through the charms deterring Muggles from Hogwarts. He was, of course, Obliviated. But many say that his theories of the tenuous nature of reality, and of the need never to cling to our preconceived notions of the world—_how do we know the sun will come up tomorrow_, most famously—arise from that early experience and his subsequent Obliviation. It's interesting—Hume stresses our lack of a fixed identity, identity being something anchored in memory, which is, of course, never wholly reliable. Now, class, I'd like for us to have a most appropriate discussion of our views of Obliviation and use of the Confunding Charm affect peoples' sense of self. How much is too much? We must be aware, class—" And here, as he did only rarely, Professor Flamel seemed quite serious, "We must be aware of the ramifications of the great and dreadful power that we hold. _That _ is why we have so much to learn from the Muggles and their philosophy. Now, who has something to contribute to start off the debate?"

Aurelia Bones raised her hand.

"My father," she said, when called upon, "is an Obliviator, and he says—he says people are always changing their memories of their own accord, so they're happier when you take away memories that don't make sense to them."

Before he knew what he was doing, Albus had replied, somewhat heatedly. "But that's not the truth!" he exclaimed. "That's just self-delusion. I think it's grand to be able to accept that the sun may not come out tomorrow—or that someone might invent a completely shocking new spell—or anything, really! If you're not looking out at all the possibilities of the world, and you're just seeing what you expect to see…" He trailed off, entirely pink in the face, when he saw the intensity with which Aurelia was staring at him, her cheeks flushed. He spent the rest of class slumped in his chair, doodling unicorns on the margins of his parchment and trying to avoid Aurelia's gaze. The one time he'd actually summoned up the courage to speak to her—and it was to _argue_.

After class, he grabbed his books and quickly departed the room. He was halfway down the hall before he heard someone shouting after him, and stopped.

"Albus!" Aurelia ran up behind him, panting slightly. He couldn't help noticing how her eyes sparkled and her face shone with the exertion.

"Yes?" he mumbled, ready for a withering insult.

"I think you were right, back there," she said instead, looking nervously down at the floor. "I quite agree, really, I think you understood Hume better than the rest of the class—"

"Thank you—"

"Yes, well—"

They both spoke at the same time, then stopped. Aurelia giggled slightly.

"Well, I was just wondering," she said, scuffing one boot on the floor, "if you'd like to come to Hogsmeade with me this weekend… we could talk more about Muggle Studies, and philosophy… you're quite brilliant, you know."

Albus stuttered, transfixed. "You… too…" he forced out. "…pretty…" Blush. "I mean, not pretty brilliant… I meant…."He trailed off pathetically.

Aurelia gave him a friendly smile and squeezed his hand. "I'll see you on Saturday in the Great Hall, then!"she said, and ducking her head a little, turned and walked jauntily away.

Albus gave a great sigh and collapsed against the wall. He didn't have a mirror, but could tell he was pale and clammy. Happy, yes. But very, very nervous. He stared at the hand Aurelia had touched, and sighed.

Wrapped up in dreams of Aurelia, he forgot completely about the mysterious unknown student in Muggle Studies, and everything else, including the next day's sunrise.


	5. The Unhappiness of Luck

A/N: How did Aberforth do it? Well, obviously Albus got his talent from somewhere, so it's sensible to think Aberforth has at least some of it as well. And never underestimate the power of obsessive love (who wrote that?). In any case, I will henceforth _strive_ to keep this as close to canon as I possibly can; just pretend, say, that the whole thing with Ariana never happened, and Albus is consequently a bit more well-adjusted, though still somewhat arrogant and self-centered.

Also, some of you (do I have any readers?) may have picked up on the fact that, actually, electric lights as Edison created them (incandescents) weren't around until roughly thirty years later. Sorry. Perhaps some enterprising Muggle in Russia got there first. I really just wanted to mention the Put-Outer.

Also, just so everyone knows—I am, indeed, familiar with all of the philosophers I'm talking about (if not lightbulbs…. The shame…), and THEY, at least, all really did live before 1853, the setting of this story. Even Schleiermacher, despite the funny name.

Onward.

Chapter Five: The Unhappiness of Luck 

As the semester drew on, all of Albus' classes seemed to be going by in double time. As usual, he had no trouble with those that required wandwork, his great strength, but Potions, History of Magic, and Muggle Studies ate into his free time. So the week he had to wait until meeting Aurelia passed with terrifying speed, and, luckily, prevented him from worrying overmuch.

He would have wanted to tell Phineas Moody, the only person to whom he had ever really poured out his soul, but could not. And he knew that Ace, who had an on-and-off fourth-year 'girlfriend,' would probably spread the story around the school, which would result in Aurelia's immediate hatred of him as a typical braggart male.

Perhaps he was overthinking things?

In any case, Phineas had taken to mercilessly teasing poor Aberforth about The Goat Thing, as it came to be known. The Hufflepuffs were, in the main, kind to Albus's brother, but young Horace Slughorn was merciless with the poor boy, though they'd gotten along well enough in camp. In fact, Slughorn had taken to spending time with Phineas and the group of Slytherins he had fallen in with.

Albus happened to be thinking about Horace, because Professor Flamel had drawn him (Albus) aside one day after Potions to talk to him about the younger boy.

"Now, Albus," he said cheerfully, "you're one of the best second-year Potions students I've ever had—really far advanced, and you understand the principles very well. I'd like to make a request. How would you like to forego the usual Potions class and take private lessons with me? In exchange, you can help me tutor young Slughorn. He's learned so much on his own I feel I must let him skip to second-year potions after the holidays."

Albus had agreed, glad to get out of the large class, where someone (usually Ace, whose Potions skills were abysmal) kept exploding various things. And Horace was an all-right bloke, even if he did give Abeforth a hard time.

And in any case, Albus did not have a long time to think about classwork, because Saturday had arrived.

He met Aurelia in the Great Hall, wearing Muggle clothing his parents had sent from America. Aurelia, too, wore Muggle skirts in a lovely dark wine color which complemented her Roman features, and a tight-fitting bodice which left, Albus noting with a gulp, _no_ room for potting soil to enter. In fact, there was barely any room for _Aurelia_ in the bodice, as she had evidently grown a bit since last wearing it.

He turned pale and began to sweat.

"Hello, Albus!" she said, waving (which did interesting things to the newer parts of her anatomy).

"H-hello, Aurelia," Albus responded, trying to be extremely courteous, and keep his eyes locked on her face. "Lemon drop? My parents just sent them from Virginia."

"Thank you, I love lemon drops." Aurelia took a candy and sucked on it daintily as they walked down the road toward Hogsmeade Village.

And then Albus had no idea what to say. Lemon drops were too small, on their own, to be a viable excuse for his taciturnity. So he popped six more into his mouth. There. Now she would have to do the talking.

"So," Aurelia said, looking sideways at him from under a really fetching bonnet, "What did you think of this week's Muggle Studies reading? I have to say, I don't agree with Kant as much as I do with Hume. But then I'm not sure I understand him—all those big words!"

Albus opened his mouth to respond—and immediately choked on two of the lemon drops crammed in his mouth.

"Oh no!" Aurelia fluttered her hands nervously before grabbing her wand. "Here, hold still—_evacuo _lemon drops!"

The candies shot out of Albus' suddenly coughing mouth. Aurelia found herself sprayed with bits of lemon-scented candy.

Albus nearly fainted.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," he stammered, reaching for his handkerchief. "I didn't mean—I'm sorry—_oh I can't do anything right_!"

Aurelia wiped her face on her sleeve and smiled. "It's all right," she said. "I told you I love lemon drops."

Albus stared at her, the fiery blush slowly fading from his face.

"Anyway," she continued cheerfully, using a _scourgify_ on her sleeve, "I've lived with my little brother Andy long enough to get used to this sort of thing."

Albus decided this presented a grand opportunity for topic-changing. "Oh, you have a little brother?"

"Yes, he's eight—his name is really Andronicus. Actually, I promised I would send him some candies from the Hogsmeade Candy Shop, as my parents don't allow him much sugar. It makes him accidentally turn his hair green."

Albus was surprised. "What, is he a metamorphmagus?"

Aurelia chuckled. "Oh, no—that's just his usual form of accidental magic. We have a cousin who is one, and I suppose he's always been jealous—you know how it is."

"I once accidentally made myself grow a beard," Albus admitted. "I wanted to look like my dad. Unfortunately I was still about four feet tall at the time and I kept tripping over it…"

It soon became clear that philosophers, ostensibly the reason for the outing, were somewhat superfluous to the conversation. Over the course of the morning, they stopped in on the Candy Shop, where Albus carefully selected several chocolate frogs (one card turned out to contain information on a relative of Aurelia's who had been Minister of Magic), and Aurelia splurged on toffee and cockroach clusters. The former were for her brother, and the latter, she explained, were for her toad, Bulie. Albus was mildly impressed that a young lady such as Aurelia even owned a toad, let alone fed it cockroach clusters.

At the Village Inn, where they stopped in for a bit of lunch, Albus spotted Phineas sitting across the room with Black, Crabbe, the Bulstrodes and young Slughorn. Phineas studiously avoided Albus' gaze, but Albus noticed Castor Black looking at him strangely, and theorized that perhaps he was jealous of Aurelia's attention.

He turned to her, and saw her giving a small wave in the table's direction.

The roar of jealousy filled his ears, and he felt the blood rush to his head.

"Do you know Castor Black?" he asked Aurelia carefully.

She stopped waving and turned to him. "Oh—yes, we're third cousins. He stayed at our house when his mother got dragon pox." She made a face. "I always found him a little bit cold, but he was nice to Andy, so I suppose he's all right. That father of his, though… did you _hear_ that Howler? I've never gotten one myself, but Donald Prewett gets them all the time for his pranks, so some people must be used to it."

Albus felt himself gradually relaxing, and they finished their lunch without incident before stopping over to say hello to Jacob and Abe Stein and Filius Flitwick, who had dragged a bar stool over to a table in order to see over the edge of it.

On the walk back to the castle, Aurelia shyly put her hand into Albus' (causing another near-heart-attack and a forcibly restrained bout of hyperventilation). When they reached the castle, he turned to her, gathered up all his courage, and….

"Argol—smeg—hip," he blurted out.

"Pardon?" She smiled at him, and something in her eyes—a sort of soft kindness—helped him to calm himself.

He took a breath. "I had a very nice time," he said softly, and pressed her hand to his lips, as he had seen older boys and girls do.

When he looked up, Aurelia was smiling at him. "I did too," she said. "'Argol, smeg, hip and all. We should go again sometime."

With a rustle of wine-colored skirts, she was off to the Hufflepuff dormitory, and Albus walked around for the rest of the day with a mad grin plastered to his face. Instead of studying that afternoon, he decided to ask Flying Master Filch if he could take out a school broom for awhile.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

On Monday, Albus arrived early to Muggle Studies again, hoping to discuss an aspect of the Forgetfulness Draught with Professor Flamel before class. He walked in just in time to see the professor downing a large, steaming beaker of light gold fluid. As Flamel hadn't noticed him, he backed hastily out of the room, eyes wide.

Was that the explanation for all of the professor's eccentric enthusism? Was he… a _felix felicis _addict? Albus had read about them, but never met one in person. It was terrible to think that his favorite professor had such a problem.

Stranger still, as he stood speechless just outside the door, he thought he heard Castor Black's voice. But when he looked around, he only saw Ace, Jacob, and the small boy he didn't recognize.

Albus had a great deal of trouble concentrating during class. Immediately afterward, he drew Aurelia aside, more to have an excuse to talk to her than anything else. Normally he would have gone to Phineas, of course…

"Aurelia?"

"Yes, Albus?"

"I'm worried about Professor Flamel."

Clearly, it had not been the conversation-started she had anticipated. She frowned slightly. "What—"

"No, we can't talk here—let's go somewhere more private." Albus realized how it sounded, blushed, and hastily amended, "like the library."

"Oh, all right," Aurelia said, and followed him, though lunchtime had just begun.

Safely ensconced among the stacks of books in the deserted library (everyone, even the librarian, Master Skeeter, was in the Great Hall), Albus told her his theory.

"_Felix felicis_?" Aurelia shook her head. "That's terrible! I feel for the poor man. You know, as time goes on, you have to drink more and more—it's like you're not even controlling your destiny any longer, too, the _felix felicis_ is just telling you what to do all the time. And of course it's hard to find the galleons for the ingredients."

"I know," Albus said grimly. "What can we do for him?"

"Well, are you sure it's _felix felicis_?"

Albus thought it over. "Well, I've never heard of another golden potion…"

Aurelia tugged at his hand, pointing toward the 'F' section of the library. "Well, why don't we look it up?" she suggested.

However, when they got to the bookshelf, they noticed something very odd. There was a large gap between _Flame and Iron: the Muggle Legacy_ and _Fleeing the Full Moon: Wolfsbane and its Applications_.

Albus was taken aback, and he could tell Aurelia was just as puzzled.

"It looks," she said finally, daintily furrowing her brow, "as though all the books on Professor Flamel have gone."

Albus felt his stomach sink. "He must have a secret… maybe even one deeper than an addiction…"

He felt awful, thinking of all the trust he had put into his favorite teacher.

Aurelia put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"We'll get to the bottom of this," she said firmly, but Albus could not help but think that he didn't really want to know the truth…


End file.
